Flirting For Dummies

Flirting For Dummies

The newly appointed CEO of Lockheed Martin was able to accept her new position extra-quick because the former CEO apparently couldn’t keep his affairs in order. Literally. (Note: I’m sure that Mrs. Hewson is a better choice for CEO anyway, and Lockheed’s handling seems to be highly professional.) Colonel Petraeus has succeeded in dropping the level of conversation about his brilliant career to his sophomoric use of emails to carry on an illicit extra-marital affair. According to the journalist Frida Ghitis, Col. P fell prey to a form of temporary insanity caused by the interaction of arrogance and libido. (Which, by the way, the French see as no big deal.) And now the frosting on this week’s cake: The Wall Street journal yesterday dedicated two pages to...

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The Tiers of Sin

The Tiers of Sin

One of the significant slivers of conditioning that I’ve had to wrestle as a shattered-and-redeemed woman, is many years of training that sin has tiers.  Sort of like a small, medium and double-triple-XL spectrum of sin measurement. Unfortunately when I learned the beautiful gift of confession, it was apparently attached to a commensurate punishment, which of course, meant my 12-year-old brain would simply pre-calculate the right level of sin to confess.  Easy.  Sorrowfully tell just enough to be believable but don’t tell the part about that really bad cuss word I test drove on the playground last week.  Sin had tiers. Yea, I didn’t get it. So, if my long dance with deception (fast forwarding now) was something closer to double-triple XXL, does that make...

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Top Ten To My Teenage Self

Top Ten To My Teenage Self

I have enjoyed the ministry of Emily Freeman’s Dear Me.  I’m late for her submission, but here goes. As I finally sit down to non-chalantly toy with the concept, I’m more in the mood for a list than a letter. It might be because it’s Friday night and we’re watching an odd animated movie by a cozy fire. Or it might be that if I tried to write a full letter, it would never end… and, besides, that’s my Scandalous memoir. So instead, I thought it’d be fun to combine two ideas: a Top Ten list and a Letter to My Teenage Self. Let’s call it licensed fusion. Plus, if I’m speedy about it, I can make it more emotionally benign. [Disclaimer over.] Dear Teenager Suzy, Listen carefully and let it sink in...

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Some Metaphors Never Get Old

Some Metaphors Never Get Old

My family thinks I’m obsessed with pulling weeds. Truly, I have been known to stop mid-stride to pull one weed, wearing heels and white trousers, carrying my laptop, only to find myself amassing huge green piles as I work my way around the front walk. They could be right. What’s more, my husband is patient with my chronic disease of leaving those piles to either demonstrate my hard work, or give the kids some participation fun.  They love chores. Especially when I create the mess. But tonight, pulling weeds provides a moment to ponder the irresistible metaphors. Especially after two weeks of paying not much attention to the evil things. Advanced Metaphor Abuse I have a particular addiction to the obtrusive, ugly ones with shallow root balls that are gross...

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Returning via Kansas

Returning via Kansas

They broke into the iconic harmony of Carry On My Wayward Son, and the nostalgia-hungry crowd stood to their feet. Of all the 70’s bands touring the world right now, presumably because they are managing some equation of “need” and “want”, we find ourselves at the Kansas concert. Really? Kansas? Eldest sister saw Aerosmith in Detroit and OH! how I would have preferred that memory-romp beyond all others. But through husband’s work, we nabbed the opportunity to host a table at last night’s Picnic at the Pops concert. [Which, by the way, seriously needs a new brand work up.] The symphony is always a joy, so that part of the evening was a wonderful chance to sink into a much needed, soothing zone of orchestral comfort. Love it. This week was...

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